TITLE: Wonderwall
AUTHORS: Jen1703 and Beaubier (collectively known as "Wingsex and the City")
FANDOM: X-Men: Evolution
PERMISSION TO ARCHIVE: Why not, eh? Just drop a line.
CATEGORY: Romance
RATINGS/WARNINGS: Rated PG-13 for adult themes
SUMMARY: Jean Grey discovers that balancing her life at Columbia University and her life as an X-Man isn't as easy as she'd thought it would be. Warren Worthington finds that the life of the lone hero by night, businessman by day simply isn't going to cut it. When the two of them meet in NYC, will their newfound friendship save them, or simply cause more complications?
DISCLAIMER: They're not ours. We just wish they were. Don't sue us, we have no money.
NOTES: This fanfic was spawned during RPing at Homoinferior, where we met each other. Jen was Jean, Beaubier was Warren. The first few meetings described in this fic are taken directly from our RP threads there. The game is now defunct, but we simply had too much fun writing it, and too many more ideas for the kids, to let it go. So we're taking it to fic. Any scene with both Warren and Jean in it has been RPed out, which is why we are writing this from the limited dual-omniscient 3rd person PoV-- to give you both sides of the story. The sections with them apart were obviously not RPed, but created to fill in the gaps and explain the characters more fully, by Jen for Jean and Beaubier for Warren. So if it reads a little differently than you're used to, from the both of us... now you know why. Much love, and hope you enjoy!
Prologue
Warren Worthington III didn't get out much.
He had a cycle, really. He'd get used to it, accept it, and decide that it was simply his lot in life to avoid his family, his associates, and his one-time friends. To not have a life at all. He contented himself with his stint as the Avenging Angel, and realize that this was his source of contentment-- the ability to help others with his differences.
And roughly three weeks later, like clockwork, he'd start to forget just what it was he'd been so content with in this "Lone Ranger" act. His life started to look like some kind of 1950's hero flick, about the young hero who can never reveal himself and his identity to the people he loves, and takes to the road and a life of complete detachment, in favor of using his abilities, and the responsibilities that came with them.
He'd never been terribly angst-ridden, as a child. Even after the disaster at school, when his wings had grown in over the course of an amazingly frightening two weeks, he'd still managed to smile most of the time. He'd been the leader of the pack, the boy with all the friends, the one who made people laugh, the best striker on the soccer team. So he still, six years later, managed to find his way back to acceptance with relative alacrity-- he might not be a carefree boy anymore, but he still remembered how to smile. He could find contentment in the fact that by telling his family who he really was, a winged mutant, he would only hurt them. He was saving them by keeping it quiet. Saving everyone who knew him from a horrible media blitz, from having their personal lives torn apart in public forums, from tearing apart their family, their business, their life.
But on days like this, the in-between days, halfway between his up and down...
He mostly just felt numb.
"We're so lucky you agreed to buy the painting, Warren. And let me thank you again for agreeing to loan it to the museum-- having this in our collection will be a crowning achievement...,"
She'd been talking for roughly twenty minutes on the subject of Renoir. Apparently, Lisa Scallen, head curator of the Impressionist galleries at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, had written her thesis on the man. When it came to art history, there was always a fair chance of Warren having read something or other on nearly every artist he was fond of-- he spent most of his days engrossed in business matters, researching Worthington Industries' unwieldy number of investments and ventures, making certain that they were worthwhile, acceptable. He made the same efforts with any charitable institution the family contributed to, both in terms of medical research and charities, and more "frivolous" efforts. Such as the large portion of the Worthington collection that they either gifted, or lent to the Met.
It was one of the few aspects of the Worthington Industries research he actually enjoyed, in the end. He'd come out of it with a well-developed sense of what he liked and why. He could hold an intellectual conversation about Gauguin or Picasso for hours. And enjoy it.
And since this was the extent of his interaction with another human being who wasn't trying to take him for his money or get him to marry their daughter, for the most part, that was rather lucky.
However, he'd honestly not read more than a blurb here and there on Renoir. Mostly because the man didn't interest him in the least. But, not having the heart to crush her enthusiasm for his works, particularly the seminal one presently located in his living room, which they were standing in front of, he couldn't quite bring himself to tell her that he'd procured the thing purely at his mother's insistence.
"What are the odds that this would be put up for auction, or that someone here in New York City would be the one to acquire it?" She was shaking her head, causing stray locks of her painfully straight, dark hair to fall in front of her tortoise-shell glasses. The woman was a walking stereotype. And, he had to admit, rather charming because of it.
But he never could manage to find anyone too charming. God forbid someone hug him. And feel what was hidden under the Armani suit.
"The odds are not worth considering," he smiled down at her, wings twitching in their harness just slightly. He hadn't flown in two days. They were restless. "But it's here, and I've made arrangements for it to go to the museum in a week."
She cocked her head at him, not unlike a cat, and smiled. "Your house is very quiet, Warren. I always thought you'd be a playboy-- big party house, Jacuzzis, the works."
Warren raised an eyebrow, and started to smile genuinely now, imagining himself living à la Hugh Hefner. Not that it was a bad mental image... he probably would've had that life now, if not for... the wings.
But he couldn't find it in him to regret the loss of that particular aspect of his formerly expected future.
Not too much.
"I'm more of a book and theater kind of guy," he replied, quietly. And it was the truth. These days.
Not that he had a choice.
"You're a hell of a catch," she surprised him by saying.
He blinked at her. Was she... hitting on him?
Not that women never hit on him-- it was a fairly regular occurrence. But this was unexpected. She'd been nothing but professional over their association for the past year, since she'd been promoted to head curator, and he'd become an "unofficial" board member at the Met. In fact, he'd always thought her rather stand-offish, but not in a snobbish way. In that scatter-brained academic way.
It didn't bother him, of course. If that was even what she was doing. He'd brought it on himself, inviting her over this evening to see the painting she'd been desperate to get close to in an "uncontrolled" environment. She'd all but invited herself, and he'd seen no problem with it, personally. Her zeal for the piece was charming, after all.
However, Warren Worthington was not in a position to encourage any kind of relationship. Not even with his own family.
His moment's silence, thinking this through, didn't go unnoticed, apparently. "I didn't mean it to sound like that," she smiled, and looked back at the painting. "It's just surprising. I'd expect your house to look like this," she nodded in it's direction. "Beautiful people, bright colors, happiness. Not that it's unhappy here, I quite like your house. It's just not what I'd expected."
A mix of very slight embarrassment and pronounced relief over his assumptions about her intentions washing over him briefly, Warren followed her gaze to the painting, and ran his eyes over the lovely composition once more. When he thought of Luncheon of the Boating Party, he always thought of that famous quote from Renoir-- "For me a picture must be an amiable thing, joyous and pretty-- yes, pretty! There are enough troublesome things in life without inventing others."
When he'd first heard that, he'd probably stopped liking Renoir. Art, to him, should reflect the human condition. Something wasn't beautiful unless it rang true with the viewer, after all. Art shouldn't just be pretty-- bathroom wallpaper should be pretty. Art should be beautiful.
But as he found himself admiring the very things she'd pointed out, the beautiful people, the obvious care with which the familiar faces had been rendered by the artist, the delicacy of his composition and colors, the obvious joy he'd felt at these gatherings and in the presence of his friends...
It suddenly seemed quite beautiful. "Things were like that for me once," He admitted, aloud, for some inconceivable reason.
"What happened?" she asked, as if it were nothing. Pure academic interest.
He thought about it. Wings. Hatred. Family. Love. Protectiveness. Heroism. Apocalypse.
And the only answer he could find was, "I grew up."
X X X X X
Jean Grey was flustered.It wasn't something that happened very often, which made it all the more frustrating to her.
She had just finished an early morning training session in the Danger Room. Nothing out of the ordinary, nothing new, just the same old typical simulation, the kind of thing she'd breezed through dozens of times with hardly a second thought. But this morning she'd been... sloppy, as Scott had pointed out.
Repeatedly.
Jean tried not to take the criticism personally, especially since she knew he was right, but it had still bothered her. So had the whispered speculations of "trouble in paradise" and the like from her teammates.
Mainly, though, she was annoyed by herself. Her inability to hold it together for their session was just not normal for her. It wasn't the way she worked. Jean Grey was calm, cool and collected, dependable and reliable. She was the one the professor held up as an example, a role model for the other students (no matter how much Jean hated it).
And she'd messed up on a simple simulation.
Jean trudged upstairs to her room, bypassing the locker rooms to have a shower in the comfort of her en suite bathroom. She kept mentally beating herself up, replaying the simulation in her head, thinking about what she should have done differently and when.
Slipping into her room, Jean went straight to the bathroom, pointedly avoiding looking at the desk piled high with work. She stripped off her uniform, turned on the shower, and stepped into the bathtub. As the warm water washed over her, she closed her eyes with a sigh.
Only a month into her first year at Columbia University, Jean was loving her college experience. The courses she was taking were challenging and fascinating. She was doing exceptionally well in all her classes, already impressing her professors with her curiosity, insight, dedication, and intelligence. On her tests and assignments so far, she had yet to receive a grade lower than an A.
The fact that Jean was a known mutant seemed to be, for the most part, a non issue. There were a few whispers and sideways glances from her classmates during the first week or so, but they faded quickly and Jean felt accepted. She was making friends, had found a group of students with whom she shared many classes, and with whom she got along quite well. The friendships were not particularly close ones, though, and Jean suspected this was primarily due to the fact that she didn't spend much time just hanging out after class. Most of her friends lived in the dorms or in apartments close to campus, so they had active social lives together during the evenings and on weekends. Jean, however, was living at the Institute and commuting to New York City every day in an attempt to balance school with her training as an X-man. And just to complicate things further, Jean was taking a heavier course load so that she could complete he undergrad degree in three years rather than four.
But Jean refused to make a choice between school and being an X-Man. She was determined to do both, and do them both well.
For the past week or so, though, she'd been toying with the idea of asking the Professor for a modified training schedule during the week. Most days, Jean was up at 5:00 for training, then was out the door by 7:30 for the 90-minute rush-hour drive from Bayville to the city. In order to accommodate her X-men training, she had been very careful to select classes that didn't start before 9:30 every morning. As such, she had several classes that ran late into the afternoon, even one that didn't end until early evening. So she was getting home anywhere between 6:30 and 9:00. She would grab a quick bite to eat (often smiling an apology at her friends and taking her plate up to her room), then spend as much time as she could on school work before finally falling into bed sometime around midnight. Other than in training sessions, she rarely saw any of her teammates. Including Scott.
Scott, for his part, had become even more dedicated to the X-Men, more determined to step-up their training, in light of the Apocalypse encounter. He was going to the small local university less than a 20 minute drive away, working towards a degree in education so that upon graduation he could teach at the Institute full time. Jean was confident he'd make a wonderful teacher. She smiled at the thought; she was very proud of him.
But with their busy schedules, Jean and Scott had been finding it increasingly difficult to spend time with each other. She missed him. Scott had always been her best friend, and they'd always spent a lot of time together, even before they started dating. Once they'd agreed, some months ago, to shift their relationship toward the romantic, they'd become inseparable. But since late August, when classes had started for them at their respective universities, their time together had been scarce.
Jean's brow furrowed as she lathered her hair, washing away the sweat and grime from the training session. Maybe they should make a point of setting aside some time to spend together this weekend. Even if it was just going out for dinner and a movie. They hadn't done anything like that in weeks, and god knew they deserved the break.
Finishing her shower, she exited the steamy room wrapped only in a large towel to find the man she'd just been thinking about sitting on her bed. Scott was still in full uniform, obviously having come to see her straight from the Danger Room.
"Hi," Jean smiled, pleasantly surprised to see him. "Give me a second, ok?" At his nod, she picked up her robe and stepped back into the bathroom, emerging seconds later. She crossed the room and sat down on the bed, facing him. Letting her eyes scan his face, she smiled.
"Are you ok, Jean?" he asked carefully, his expression one of concern.
Of course. The session. Jean sighed inwardly, and offered him a half-smile. "I'm fine," she assured him. "Just having an off day."
She could see him watching her from behind his visor, twin pinpoints of faint red light. He was weighing her answer, she knew. "You were –"
"Sloppy," she interjected without malice, finishing the thought for him. "Yeah, I know. I'm sorry, it won't happen again."
He was silent for moment, still just watching her. Worrying about her, she knew. "You look tired," he finally said, gently.
Jean nodded reluctantly. "I am, a little."
Scott smiled sadly at her. "You're pushing yourself too hard, aren't you." He didn't make it a question.
"No, I'm not," Jean protested, taking his gloved hand in hers. She wouldn't admit, not even to herself, that he might be right. "It's just taking some adjusting, still trying to get into a routine. I'll be fine, I promise."
"I'm worried about you," Scott admitted quietly, squeezing the hand she'd wrapped around his own.
"Don't be. I'm fine, really," she told him, trying to reassure him. Jean thought back to her musings in the shower. Try to make time. "Hey, do you want to go out this weekend? There are a couple of movies playing that I'd like to see. It would be nice for us to get away for a bit."
"I don't know, Jean. I have to meet with my study group, do some other homework, not to mention going over some things with the Professor and working with Logan on some ideas I have for the team..." he shook his head and smiled apologetically. "I'm sorry. Rain check?"
Jean smiled her understanding. "Sure, Scott. Rain check."
With a nod, Scott rose from the bed and just looked down at her for a moment. Finally be leaned over and kissed her gently on the forehead. "Alright. See you later, then. And take care of yourself, ok?"
"You too," she replied, still smiling, as she watched Scott cross the room and exit into the hallway, shutting the door behind him. Jean's smile disappeared and she stared at the door for a long time before finally getting to her feet to finish getting ready for the day.
And she tried very hard to squelch the empty feeling in her stomach. Because the truth was, she was relieved he'd said "no".